


gravity has taken better men than me

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Awkward Boners, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Pre-OT3, Sexual Tension, Sparring, Threesome - M/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, sexy sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 15:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: The bigger they are (the harder they fall)...





	gravity has taken better men than me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a love letter to the discord chat. If ten people scream into a discord server and one person writes it down, who really wrote the thing? You all are the greatest ilu.

“This isn’t _fair_ ,” Tucker whines, eyeing Locus across from him on the sparring mat. “He’s got like a foot of height and a hundred pounds on me. He’s gonna squish me like a bug.”

Locus snorts in affront, but in such a way that makes it clear that he’s only protesting that he _would_ crush Tucker into a puddle of mewling goo, because obviously he _could_.

“I’m not going to ‘squish’ you. That wouldn’t be productive to the exercise,” he retorts. “And I told you, I don’t do that anymore.”

“We appreciate you agreeing to help us train,” Wash interrupts, voice raised pointedly. Tucker rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks for helping Wash kick my ass. You fuck me up, I don’t make you pancakes anymore,” Tucker hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at him.  “You will be banned from Blue Team Brunch.”

It’s a serious, and concerning, threat. Blue Team Brunch is one of the premier dining experiences on Vacation Moon.

“Duly noted,” Locus acquiesces. Only then does Tucker reluctantly step forward onto the mat across from him.

“Tucker, you can learn a lot from sparring with someone considerably bigger than you,” says Wash from off to the side. He’s utterly unmoved by Tucker’s whining.

“But he’s on our side now,” Tucker protests. “We’re not gonna be fighting him anymore!”

“There’s always going to be someone bigger than you, Tucker,” Wash admonishes.

“Yes,” Locus agrees. His face shows no sign of the amusement in his tone. “Especially considering your…. stature.”

“Okay, fuck it, let’s go,” Tucker snaps, sliding into a fighting stance. “Tell me how to fuck ‘im up, Wash.”

Wash hides his chuckle behind his hand; he knows better than to waste a (finally) motivated Tucker.

“Okay,” Wash says. “The thing to remember about fighting people taller than you hand-to-hand is that almost always, they’re going to have a higher center of gravity than you. We’ve been working on take downs and throws based on manipulating that center of gravity all week, now let’s see if you can put it together on a dynamic target.

“Tucker, try to knock Locus off his feet. Locus will try to dodge your attacks. Start whenever you’re ready.”

Tucker circles him, searching for an opening. Locus pivots with him, all the more intimidating with his flawless defensive stance, his eyes sharp on Tucker. It’s like he’s seeing straight through him, into his head, seeing every angle of attack that pops into his head. Tucker sighs and takes a step back, letting his own stance drop.

“Dude, this isn’t going to work,” Tucker says. “Close your eyes.”

Locus raises an incredulous eyebrow at him without breaking his stupid perfect stupid defensive stance.

“No.”

“C’mon, man,” Tucker whines. “I’m just gonna keep second-guessing myself if you keep _looking_ at me like that while I’m trying to figure this out.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Look, dude, you’ve probably spent your whole life learning how to defend against people fucking up your ‘center of gravity’ or whatever. I’m still learning. Just, like, go get your helmet or something, or close your eyes. At least give me a chance to get this right while I’m figuring this out.”

Locus sighs and looks to Wash. Wash shrugs.

Locus rolls his eyes in an exaggerated pantomime of long-suffering, but closes them.

“Jesus,” Tucker sighs. “ _Thank you_.”

“Your welcome.”

They fall back into the exercise. Locus still pivots in the direction he thinks Tucker’s in, and he’s scarily accurate for a guy with his eyes closed. Tucker tries to walk softer, and is gratified when Locus frowns, stilling, clearly listening for him. He considers his angle of attack, chewing his bottom lip in concentration.

On the next pass behind him he springs.

He gets his arms wrapped around Locus’s head, legs wrapping around his ribs before Locus has time to react. Somewhere, someone bursts out laughing, and okay, whatever. It doesn’t look pretty, probably looks pretty stupid, but he’s going to fucking _win_ this time.

Locus’s hands grip his arms, trying to pry him off but Tucker just digs in harder, clenches his limbs around him and then throws himself backward. Locus stumbles, Tucker yanks again and then they’re going backwards, toppling down. He’s ready once his back hits the floor, the smack loud and nearly as painful as the fall itself. Locus snarls, Tucker twists his hips, and they roll, over and over, hands scrabbling for purchase.

“Ha!”

Tucker pins Locus’s wrists to the mat, leaning down and over his face as he crows with victory. He pants for breath, sweat slick under his shirt and sliding down his neck but he _did it_. He _won_. Locus struggles against him, but Tucker’s got a good angle here, his weight pinning him down and limiting his range of motion, preventing him from using most of those impressive muscles to throw him off. They scuffle for a long minute, but it’s no use; Locus huffs in frustration before lying back against the mat, conceding defeat. Tucker grins giddily, but doesn’t sit back on his ankles just yet. He’s going to revel in his victory for more than a moment, and lets himself take in the tableau they’ve found themselves in.

Somehow during the struggle he’d ended up with his legs straddling Locus’s chest and shoulders, his upper body stretched over him, pinning his arms up over his head. Locus’s mouth is set in a grim line, (but that’s not anything new) but there’s something different about it. Something different in his eyes as Tucker looks down into his face. His hair had come out of its tail in the struggle, falling messy and spread out around his head. Tucker licks his lips without knowing why, salt sharp on his tongue. He’s so close he can see Locus’s pupils dilate, making his eyes impossibly darker. Which doesn’t really make any sense, why would he…

Until the insinuation in their position catches up to him, and Tucker’s breath catches in his throat.

Locus’s face is between his knees. Caught between his thighs. A tongue of flame licks down his spine as the knowledge floods his brain all at once. All he’d have to do would be to tilt his hips forward and he’d be in the perfect position to…

He watches, transfixed, as red blossoms under the dark of Locus’s complexion, staining his cheeks. He can feel Locus’s chest heaving under him, great shaking breaths that sound like they’re from more than just exertion. He’s suddenly hyper aware of the slick where he’s holding Locus’s wrists down, his sweat and Locus’s own mingling under his palms. He’s glowing, gleaming with sweat everywhere, on those knife-blade cheekbones of his, the line and hollow of his throat, the curves of muscle in his shoulders and arms where they’re held out, practically on display like this. Where Tucker has him pinned.

Locus’s eyes are wide and dark enough to fall into. His mouth loosing from its usual tight slash into something slacker. Softer. All he’d have to do would be to push his hips forward, and he’d be— he could—

Wash clears his throat. The moment breaks.

“Good— Good job, Tucker,” he coughs. Tucker can’t make himself look up from Locus’s face. “Great use of the… center of, center of gravity. You should be more careful about taking it to the ground, he’s got an advantage on you there but…”

Wash’s voice trails off and only then does Tucker force himself to look up.

Wash is taking a frantic-looking pull from a water bottle, half the thing already empty. He avoids Tucker’s eyes, looking anywhere but from where Tucker’s still got Locus underneath him on the mat.  Tucker watches, mesmerized by the line of his throat, the glitter of sweat on his skin in the sun. When he lowers the bottle, Tucker can see an angry pink flush spreading across the bridge of his nose, down his neck. He still stammering something, joint locks and holds but Tucker isn’t listening. Heat tingles across his skin, prickling across his arms. He sweeps his eyes down Wash’s body, raking them down Wash’s chest like he can see how far down that flush goes. He glances up and Wash is looking at him now, eyes wide and just as shocked as Tucker feels right now.  His fingers tighten on Locus’s wrists, and he feels Locus’s breath hitch underneath him.

“I think that’s enough training for today,” Wash rushes out. “I’m going to go inside. It’s hot out here. Take a nap. If you don’t mind. We can be done for today.”

“Yes,” Locus says, the first thing he’s said since Tucker had gotten him on his back. “Yes.”

“Yes, so good job. Everyone. See you— I’m just going to go. Nap. Right now.”

Tucker swings himself off Locus and lurches to his feet. He takes a few stumbling steps in Wash’s direction, but Wash has already turned on his heel and is power walking back to the base like a man possessed. He huffs and grabs a bottle of water, gulping it down like it’ll cool the fever in his brain enough to figure out what to do next. Who is he kidding, he knows exactly what he’s going to do next.

“Dude,” Grif says, coming to join him at the water. “How did you get this fucked _again_?”

“Not _now_ , Grif,” Tucker sighs, and hurries after Wash.

 

*

 

Wash closes the door behind him purposefully, walks around the corner and only then does he let himself sink back into the wall.

“Oh, fuck.”

The image from the mat is seared into his retinas, making his blood flare hot in his veins, heat pooling in his belly. He presses his back against the cool of the wall and tries to calm his racing pulse. Slow breaths, that’s the key. In and out. Don’t think about Tucker’s thighs, about Locus’s wrists flexing in his grip and doing nothing to throw him off, don’t think about what might have happened if he hadn’t have said something.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

And Locus had look like he’d _wanted_ it, his heels digging into the mat. Wash closes his eyes, remembering the way Locus’s back had arched when it became clear Tucker wasn’t going to just get up, the way his knees had parted…

“I’m so fucked,” he says aloud.

There’s the sound of running feet, and then a door slams open and shut.

“ _Dude._ ”

Wash looks up to glare at Tucker where he’s hanging in the doorway, arms braced against the frame. Beaming at him like Christmas and his birthday had come early, naked joy written plain across his face. He refuses to let himself stare at Tucker’s mouth, shiny and wet, and doubly refuses to wonder what got it that way. What else might get it that way. He’s got to get a handle on this, before it all spirals even further out of control. Tucker is entirely too good at convincing Wash to do the things he really wants to do. As if wanting to were reason enough.

“No, Tucker.”

“But, dude!” Tucker protests, flailing his arms back in the direction of the training mats, but mostly Locus.

“No.”

“Dude.”

“Absolutely not.”

“ _Dude_.”

“Stop calling me ‘dude.’”

“ _Wash_ ,” and that was a bad idea, Tucker absolutely cannot be saying his name with that tone of voice right now. He crosses the space between them in two long strides . He braces his arms on the wall on either side of Wash, boxing him in, and that isn’t fair. Who taught him to do that. Since when is he attracted to that? Wash’s breath comes quicker in his lungs, which is a bad idea because Tucker’s so close Wash can smell him now. Musk and spice and sweat, and if he opens his mouth he’ll be able to taste him on his tongue and his willpower is rapidly eroding away under this onslaught.

Tucker’s eyes are smiling at him, hot with desire and crinkling in the corners and Wash never did have any good defense against that.

“Wash,” he says again, and his lips linger on the sh of his name. Wash wants to kiss it off his lips. He wants to put his mouth _everywhere_ on Tucker, lick the sweat off of him. This isn’t helping him calm down. Rational people don’t go around wanting to lick people. He needs to be rational here.

“Look me in the eye,” Tucker says, “And tell me you don’t want to have hot, filthy, threesome sex with me and Locus.”

Wash opens his mouth.

“Look me in the eye,” Tucker continues, “And tell me I’m wrong. That you don’t wanna have mad awesome, dirty, sweaty sex with me and Locus, but you’re kinda freaking out about it right now.”

Wash closes his mouth.

“I’m so fucked.”

“Yes!” Tucker cheers, actually punching the air in excitement, who does that? “We’re going to get _so fucked_.”

 

*

 

Locus blinks up at the sun. The sky is very blue on this planet. And the sun is very hot.

He doesn’t think it explains the sheen of sweat slicking his body, the pool of heat settled low in his groin. He hasn’t looked down to see if his erection is apparent. He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to move. He wants to lay here and feel the heat spreading in a layer under his skin like magma from every place Tucker touched him until every inch of him is burning. He wants to dunk himself in the ocean. He wants to keep lying here.

Grif’s face drifts into his field of vision.

“You’re pretty fucked, too.”

The mat shifts as he lowers himself to sit next to him. Locus returns to staring at the sky and trying to forget the weight of Tucker on top of him. If he inhales deeply he thinks he can still catch a trace of the way Tucker smelled. (It’s probably stronger where they touched. His wrists tingle.) He tries to forget the weight of Agent Washington’s gaze on him as Tucker held him down.

His brow furrows.

“Too?” he asks.

Grif slaps a hand across his own face and groans.


End file.
